The Definition of Strength
by bjaarcy
Summary: "By definition, strength means the state or quality of being physically or mentally strong..." Takes place post-3x06 Mash Off, so spoilers up to that. Mentions of Klaine. Rated for swearing. ONESHOT.


ENJOY THE POST-EP LOVINNNNNN. (Or hating. Idk how to identify this fic, so please just enjoy XD)

Disclaimer: Written because I need this in my life, not because I own gLee.

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><p><em><strong>By definition, strength means the state or quality of being physically or mentally strong…<strong>_

-.-

Santana had run out of the auditorium after slapping the giant fucking oaf named Finn Hudson.

She was _pissed._

She was _hella_ pissed.

She was pissed at Finn. (Who the _fuck_ was he, anyway? Who the _fuck_ was he, outing her because it was the only way to strike back? The fucking bastard.)

She was pissed off at her issues.

She was pissed off at the entire school.

She was pissed off at the whole goddamn _world_ because they all fucking knew about her now.

Brittany began calling after her, chasing after her, as Santana knew Brit would. But Santana couldn't handle that right now. Not when being with Brittany was what she was so afraid of in the first place.

Her vision went out of focus since the mash up ended, the tears piling up at the rims of her eyes. So Santana was just trusting her instincts at this point, running towards what she hoped was her locker hallway. Once she took in her surroundings – which was, yes, her locker hallway – she leaned against the lockers and sank to the floor, covering her face because she knew her make up was fucked up and her tears were smearing everything and fuck if she was letting anyone see her like that.

Santana curled into herself, trying to keep quiet, hoping that no one would see her like this. Because that was the _last_ thing Santana wanted. For someone to walk in and see her at her weakest.

(Ugh, even _admitting_ it made her hate herself just that much more.)

She wanted to disappear. She wanted to curl up into a tiny ball until she was small enough to be wiped off the face of the planet.

_Why __couldn__'__t __I __be __normal?_ she thought. Why did _she_ have to put up with all this crap? Why did _she_ have to fall for one of the sweetest girls ever, a girl that deserved a shit load more than Santana could ever be?

Santana cried out at all her confusion. Everything hurt like a bitch. She couldn't breathe properly, hiccupping every time a tear dropped. Her head was spinning. Her face was aching from all the sobbing she'd been doing. Her feet were _killing_ her from the performance and from running like a freak out of the auditorium, so she took her heels off, throwing them across the hallway until they slammed into the lockers in front of her. Her stomach clenched at the thought of why she ran out in the first place.

Truthfully, Santana was _trying,_ okay? She held Brit's hand _over_ the damn table that one time in Breadstix. She'd been _trying_ to come up with the strength to even think, _Today.__You__can__do__this__today._ (Though, if she was continuing to be truthful about this whole mess, she'd also usually end up thinking, _And__if__you__don__'__t__ – __well,__fuck__it._ But whatever. People always said that it's the thought that counts right?) She'd been _trying_ to come up with a way to show the world she didn't give a single fuck about what they thought about her – and Brit.

But of course, all of that shit was easier said than done. And Santana definitely liked words a whole hell of a lot better than putting them into action.

"Santana? Santana?" Brittany called out, and Santana stood silently, trying to escape Brittany a little while longer. She couldn't face Brit, not yet anyway. Still, Brittany sounded a ways away, and Santana knew that if she was quiet enough, she'd be able to sneak into the girl's washroom around the corner without Brit's knowledge.

She picked up her shoes from where she threw them and tiptoed out of the hallway, trying not to let her dress rustle at her every movement. She held her breath until she opened the door to the washroom, because she knew even the tiniest sniffle could give her location away. Once Santana quietly closed the door, she listened carefully, letting out a silent breath when she heard Brittany's voice pass by and fade away into the next hallway.

She dropped her shoes by the corner and walked to the sink, gripping it by the edges. She let her head cast down, not wanting to see what had become of her yet. After taking a few shaky but needed breaths, she finally mustered up the strength to look up into the mirror.

Santana cringed at the sight; she looked _awful._ Her make up had rubbed everywhere on her face, swirls of glitter and blush and eyeliner mapping her cheeks. Her lips were dry and her lipstick smeared at the corner of her mouth. Her hair was messy as hell from leaning against the lockers, much less sliding down against them. Her eyes were bloodshot. But, if you could look past that, you could also tell that they were lonely.

She didn't look like someone who was the captain of the cheerleading squad. She didn't look like a popular girl. She didn't look like the girl every other girl wanted to be, the one who turned heads when she passed by boys.

Then again, she didn't look like someone Brittany would be with either. Because Brittany would be with someone who was just as strong as her, who was just as caring and wonderful, someone who wouldn't care what everyone else thought.

Santana rubbed at her eyes, trying to rid the last of her tears from them. When her mascara started to sting at her eyes, she cursed, turning on the faucet to rinse the shit from her face. As she did so, she didn't hear the door opening softly and someone stepping in. She continued to wash her face until she was sure she could open her eyes without make up seeping into them, but she didn't notice that someone was watching her carefully, silently.

When she looked up into the mirror, Santana was torn between screaming for her life and killing the fuck out of Blaine Anderson.

Instead, though, she growled, glaring at him through the mirror. "What the fuck do _you_ want?" she hissed, her fingers curling onto the sink's edges so she wouldn't begin clawing at the curly haired boy. "Get out of the girls' washroom."

Blaine merely shrugged, getting off the stall he'd been leaning on and walking towards her. Santana kept her eyes steady, sending telepathic daggers towards the boy. If she was good at doing one thing, it was intimidation, and she knew that glaring was key to achieving that.

Her death glare had no effect on the not-so-newbie-anymore though, and Blaine calmly walked over to her before placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. His eyes were soft and understanding, but Santana could see – above all – that there was no trace of pity in them.

No.

There was _empathy._

It didn't take long before Santana started to cry again, bowing her head and tearing her gaze away from Blaine's. She gripped the sink's edges tighter, as if they were the only thing keeping her from dissolving into the floor. Blaine's hand squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, a quiet reminder that he – _someone_ – was there.

Santana didn't know what she wanted from Blaine, and she sure as hell didn't give a fuck about what he wanted from her. But his presence was comforting, and she felt like she wasn't alone, like she didn't have to go through all this bullshit by herself anymore.

Blaine's hand had wandered from squeezing her shoulder to rubbing gentle circles on her back when Santana managed to compose herself. Her eyes were staring blankly at the white porcelain of the sink and her sobs had turned into muffled sniffs. She sniffed uncontrollably though, and the silence in between each was annoying to the point where Santana almost wanted to scream at him, "_Say__something!_"

No one was more surprised than her when, instead, she croaked out, "How do you do it?" She didn't dare to lift her gaze from the sink.

There was a moment of silence, and Santana felt embarrassed. Who was she to ask the stupid questions anyway?

"What do you mean?" Blaine eventually answered, and Santana could hear the genuine confusion in his voice.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a while, before slowly lifting her head up to meet his gaze. "You and Kurt. How do you guys _do_ it? How do you handle the stares? The bullshit people whisper about you? The things they say?" she demanded, though her usual fierceness wasn't there, obstructed by the scratchiness in her voice.

Blaine pressed his lips together, and Santana was just about to brush off her question, to say, "Whatever, forget about it," when he finally spoke up.

"We hold onto each other. We help each other make it through the day, and remind ourselves that it doesn't matter what everyone else says. We remind each other that they can't touch us, they can't touch what we have." He smiled briefly, like he was reminiscing something, his gaze flickering off to the side before his eyes met Santana's once more. "It's hard. But when we're all we've got, and when we remember that our love is something worth all of the crap we get, it makes the day easier."

Santana sighed, licking her lips and ducking her head again. She didn't know what kind of answer she wanted, honestly. Maybe a guideline, or instructions to follow so she could map her way through this bullshit. But even she knew that life wasn't that easy. That you couldn't just take a detour past all the crap that's supposed to make you stronger. All you could do was hope, hope and pray that you would have someone who could be by your side so you wouldn't have to go through it alone. She closed her eyes.

Blaine moved his hand back to her shoulder again when he began to speak.

"Sometimes… sometimes, it's really hard." She heard him take a gulp. "Sometimes, I could be at my locker, and I'd hear… _really_ hateful things. Things that are the furthest thing from the truth. Things that are whispered behind my back when people think I don't notice. Things that only come from the fact that I'm gay."

"Of course," she mumbled. Santana shook her head, smiling mockingly. This was the path she was on now. This was what was going to happen to _her_ soon enough. The journey for a queer was an awful one, she knew that. She just hoped it would've been delayed until she got out of this shit town. Too late for that.

Blaine stayed quiet for a moment, until he added, "But then I see Kurt's face down the hallway. I see his smile as he makes his way towards me, and I think, _'__He__is__worth__all__the__slurs__I__receive.__He__is_worth_fighting__for.__'_"

Santana stayed silent, digesting his words. Hearing Blaine profess his love for Kurt was not something Santana would particularly want to hear. But the way he said it, it made loving someone seem like a battle he actually had a chance of winning.

"I can't say that things are better now, when it's still pretty crappy," Blaine continued. "But that doesn't mean that we're not on our way to having it be the best it could possibly be."

Santana suddenly looked up, her eyes meeting his instantly. "You keep saying it like everything's gonna work out in the end, when you really have no idea," she pointed out, her instincts to "keep it real" coming naturally.

Blaine pursed his lips, considering the fact. "No, I don't have any idea what could happen," he admitted. "I don't know if Kurt will be with me tomorrow, or next week, or the next year. I don't know if people are ever going to accept that we love each other." He paused, his eyes filled with conviction. "What I _do_ know is that I love Kurt, and he loves me too. And it's enough to have us working towards make it last."

He squeezed her shoulder again, stepping back towards the door as he gave her a reassuring smile. Santana could vaguely hear Brittany outside, still calling out for her as she got closer to the washroom, when Blaine finally let go of her and opened the door.

"Th-thank you," she finally blurted out, turning towards him with a half-assed but still grateful smile just before Blaine stepped out. He simply smiled back, nodded at her and left. And it only took Santana blinking for a split second to have Brittany take his place at the door.

"Santana!" Brittany said, clearly triumphant at finding the Latina. Santana smiled at her weakly.

She was still not at the point where she could go down the hall and hold Brittany's hand without fear. She was far from being the girl who had the courage to stand up and give less a crap about what the world thought. And maybe Blaine was just saying a bunch of bullshit and she may never truly get it right with how to be herself.

But.

Maybe Brittany could help her find her way.

-.-

… _**but strength could also mean having the courage to stand up for who you are, and who you love.**_

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><p>Akldjfaklsdjflaksdf I just <em>really,<em>_really,__**really**_ want some Blainetana relations, okay? Okay. A friendship won't hurt either, but taking baby steps like this would be much better.

And yeah! Thanks for reading and don't be afraid to drop off a review! :D

x o x o bjaarcy

PS Hope I didn't go ooc at one point. I have issues writing Santana sometimes :/


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